


Sundrops and Rainlight

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction
Genre: BEWARE OF SPOILER TAGS, Bakery boy!Harry, Depression, Don't look ahead if you don't want spoilers, F/M, Harry's the one who's aching for someone to fix, Honestly. Tags spoil everything., Liam's the one who helped Louis out, Louis's been raped but he doesn't tell anyone, M/M, Niall's the funny and kind friend, Piano prodigy!Louis, Rape, SPOILERS AHEAD, Self-Harm, Slight eating disorder but not really, TAGS ARE SPOILERS, WARNING; TRIGGERS, Zayn's the rude but understanding boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The way he says it, like he doesn't mind taking chances for Louis in any way whatsoever, makes Louis's gaze fall downwards. "And you don't even know me."</em>
</p><p>  <em>"That's exactly what I want to change," Harry says softly, and Louis can't help looking up then, and Harry's smile has slipped away, replaced by an honest look, his eyes glowing with reflected streetlights.</em></p><p>------------<br/>Or, the one where Louis's the piano prodigy who hidden himself among his secret scars, and Harry's the sweet lad from the bakery who aches to fix someone like he knows they ought to be fixed.</p><p>Larry Stylinson fanfiction, AU. And, FYI, Begin Again by Taylor Swift doesn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bright Primroses

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this story (though not this chapter) has a lot of mature stuff in it, and YES; it has triggers. So do not read if you selfharm or anything, because I cannot guarantee any safety in the chapters ahead.

It's quite normal for this to be going on in Louis's life, now - Niall chatting about his day and how Mr. Higgins drinks his tea and how there's this incredibly fit girl (Amy something-or-other) who sits ahead of him in World History, while Louis nods and listens, with the Top 40 songs of this month whispering to him through his earphones. It took quite a few weeks in the beginning of first term of the awkward routine (though Niall seemed perfectly comfortable - maybe it was just Louis being Louis) before he became more accustomed to it. 

It is not, however, normal for Niall to be dragging Louis along to 'The Grimshaw Bakery', or so Niall's calling it, at 7:30 p.m on a dark and snowy February night.

"Niall," Louis complains, still half-resisting Niall's insistent tugs in the direction of a cozy little street. "We could come back another day, you know."

But Niall's hyperactive and bouncy, and he keeps pulling Louis with him. Even though he's small, he's deceivingly strong, and although Louis probably could halt whenever he wanted, he's not really inclined to.

"But Lou," Niall says eagerly, "Cher and Aiden and I came here before - y'know, 'cause Aiden saw his name and squealed like a bird - and it's got this amazing chocolate cake that melts in your mouth like heaven! You'll die an unsatisfied and unfulfilled life if you don't try it."

(Niall says this about practically every moderately-okay food he's ever tasted, so really, it's no wonder that Louis's resistant.)

"But Niall," Louis says, mocking his voice, putting in a small effort to dig his heels into the crisp snow, "I don't - "

"No excuses," Niall scolds him, now using both hands to tug. As they turn into the street, a neon sign looms above their heads, reading; "The Grimshaw Bakery". It's neither too flashy nor too boring; it's got a comforting home-ey touch, but it doesn't really change Louis's reluctance about eating here. First up, it's new, and he doesn't really _do_ new. Second, it's night and he has an evening class with Mr. Cardle. And thirdly, it's just extra calories, and Louis doesn't really want to gain more weight then he has to.  
(And yes, there's an underlying fourth itching under his skin, but he knows that can wait for later, because it never really goes away.)

Still, he finally surrenders, letting his feet walk instead of drag behind. "Fine," he says, still doubtful, as Niall relinquishes his grip on Louis's arm and pushes the door open. A flood of warmth envelops him. "But you know I have a class at 8:10 with Cardle, so we better be back in time."

"Louis, it only took five minutes to walk here from the Uni," Niall informs him, reassuring, as they walk towards the counter. He sounds mildly irritated, like he's tired of how Louis's acting, but he's gotten used to it. Louis's just like that.  
The place is more like a cafe then a bakery; littered with a random assortment of seats and tables - ranging from picnic tables with initials scratched into them to posh coffee tables with glass-table tops and carved legs. Looking around, it's refreshingly odd, and Louis can't help but admit silently that it's just what he used to like. Now, though, he's not so sure.

Now, though, he's not sure of anything.

Niall bounds up to the counter, full of the untameable energy and enthusiasm that Louis really can't muster anymore. He slides the menu out from underneath the register with an eased familiarity that comes with everything Niall does; he acts like he owns everything (and maybe he does, because nobody ever really makes any move to stop him). He begins flipping through it, but then halts instantly, and spares a glance for the seemingly empty counter. It's desert and rather quiet.

"Hel-loooooo?" he calls, in a way that makes Louis cringe. "Anybody ho-ommmmme?"

 _"Of course, honey-muffin, Grandma's just popping round to make some scones!"_ comes the mocking squawk of a reply, dripping with falsetto and sugary tones. Niall laughs delightedly, and a tall boy comes out from a door painted blue behind the counter, precariously balancing a tray of what appears to be double-chocolate chip cookies in the crook of his elbow. He makes a swooping gesture with his free arm.

"Hello and welcome to the Grimshaw Bakery! - Oh, Niall, right?" the boy says suddenly, his voice thrummingly deep and slow, squinting his eyes in recognition. Niall nods, and the boy looks pleased with himself.

"You and that girl with dark hair - her name was Sheryl? - came here and you had four plates of the chocolate cake. God bless." There's a laughing glimmer in his smoky green eyes, a secure warmth of appreciation that's comforting.

"Cher," Niall corrects, grinning, "But yeah, that's us."

"Well, then," the boy says, drumming his lean fingers against the marble counter-top, "I'm Harold Edward Milward Styles. Pleasure to meet you."

Niall snorts. That's another of Niall's Irish charms - despite what he says or does that might seem spiteful, no one can take it harshly. "Milward?"

The boy flashes Niall a small grin. "Just Harry Edward Styles, actually." Then his eyes flicker towards Louis, who had been watching all of this silently. That's how their friendship works. Niall is the bubbly, social, peppy lad who's always up for a pint and a chat, while Louis's the quiet, introverted boy who's always immersed in his work, but he's a great shoulder to lean on and always listens attentively.  
 _Niall's the mouth and Louis's the ear_ , Cher always chirps when she introduces them to others.

"He's Louis, my best mate," Niall pipes up, slinging an arm around Louis's shoulders easily. "But I was forced to drag him here."

Which reminds him. "Niall. Class," Louis says urgently, sparing a glance in Harry's direction. Harry just smiles a small smile, patient.

"Right!" Niall chirps, and he orders three slices of the chocolate cake, along with a Yorkshire Tea for Louis and a mocha latte for himself. (Apparently, as Louis learned two weeks into their room-mate bonding 'walks', Niall isn't picky in what he eats, or drinks - he just orders the first thing he find most appetizing by appearance.)

Harry doesn't bother noting them down, just nods in a carefree way, and then - in a blur of a moment - Louis looks up from inspecting his scuffed TOMs and Harry catches his eye.

He's actually very pretty; quite beautiful, as a matter of fact. His hair is a messy array of dark curls, with high cheekbones and pale, porcelain skin, which, although looks pasty and sickly on Louis, it works well with Harry's brightly-lit green eyes, shrouded with pale-grey smoke and the smallest of blue flecks, perhaps. Slightly chapped, plump pink lips, and an almost big nose. A few spots here and there, but they do nothing to mar his features - they make him seem a little more earthly, a little more real. Add the tall, lean figure of about 6' feet he has and the warmth in his actions; and there you have it.

But it's not about how beautiful he is or isn't; Louis's met more than a handful of beautiful people - with good looks and kind eyes and enchanting smiles.

It's how he's looking at Louis right now.

His eyes are carefully studying him, falling down to Louis's feet and flicking all the way up to his astonished eyes. And the tiniest of smiles is set on his pink lips, faintly noticeable and almost unimportant.  
But Louis flushes, and looks down.

"Coming right up," he hears Harry tell Niall, charming voice back on, and Niall pulls him to a polished wooden table with three legs, and two seats. There, he begins nattering nineteen to the dozen about how he's dying to watch some movie, and Louis fits himself into the conversation, adding the occasional remark and criticising Niall's stupid comments. It helps him keep his mind off things... like how Harry'd looked at him and how the itch under his skin was tingling, and his nails bit into the skin of his palm to cool it down.

Then Harry comes back to the table, apron awry, and sets down the cake and drinks. "Bon appétit, monsieurs," he says lightly, French accent perfect, if only slightly rusty.

Niall raises his coffee cup in a toast, and Louis just smiles faintly. Niall has enough expressions for two - Louis hardly has enough for himself.  
Louis can feel the faint flash of a glance Harry throws at him, and he just manages to stop himself from glancing back.

They eat and talk, like they always do, and Louis has to admit that the chocolate cake is mouthwatering-ly good - warm and succulent and delightful. Niall sighs blissfully, patting his small tummy, as Harry comes up to them and takes the plates away.

"So good," Niall groans, head lolling, eyes fluttering shut. Louis pokes him.

"Fall asleep in your bed, Ni. It's more comfortable than a chair. Hurry, Cardle is going to kill me!"

Mumbling some gibberish, Niall drags himself to his feet, and stands up sluggishly. His usually-brilliant blue eyes are clouded with sleep, and Louis carefully hooks an arm around his waist to make sure he doesn't stumble and fall asleep under the blanket of stars. Which, he has done before.

The bakery seems to be closing up. Harry shuts the kitchen door, and, while locking it up, calls back to them. "You'll be okay going back?"

"'M fine," Niall says, though his words seem to be slurring. "Lou Lou will help me here, won't you?"

Louis rolls his eyes fondly, even though he's still crackling like tin foil inside with Harry now watching them both. "Yeah, yeah, Ni." Then, hesitating, he speaks to Harry; "Did we pay yet?" Because he doesn't quite remember Niall ever handing Harry any money, and he'd rather not look like a thief.

"Yeah," Harry confirms, sliding his apron off, and Louis catches a sliver of pale skin under his half-sleeved t-shirt, like his long torso can't be contained. He shrugs a plaid shirt on over it, looking at Louis.

Louis gives him a smile, a little crooked one which his favorite teacher (Mr.Murs) adores, and then brings Niall outside.  
It's started snowing, tiny little snowflakes falling like angels from a dark splash of grey clouds. The ground is already sheathed in snow, which is rather uncommon for London, where snowing is far less regular than freezing cold sleets of rain. Yellow street lights emit a glow which leads the way. When he squints, Louis can just see the little trail of fluorescent lights coming from the academy through the small whirl of snowflakes.

The cool touch of snow seems to awaken Niall, and he shivers as a drought slivers up his shirt. Louis pulls his jacket a little firmer around his waist, the sheepskin edge soothingly warm around his neck. Niall, although in a bundle of jumpers and a coat on top, evidently still feels cold.

"Let's move," Niall says, hastily, stifling a yawn, and they begin ploughing their way through the snow. Louis leans down to trail his fingers through some powdery snow, and then, turning around, blows it in Niall's face, smiling. When he's alone with Niall, he feels more comfortable, like himself.

"Wait!"  
Louis blinks, before peering behind Niall, who spins around. It's Harry, coming up to them quickly, his long legs helping him stride quickly. The bakery/cafe is locked up for the night, and Harry comes right in front of them, lazy but lovely in the saffron lamplight, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of an army-green pea coat. He's wearing what Cher likes to call 'old man shoes', but they don't look very old man-ish on him, at all - Louis ducks his head, before he makes any more crazy judgements.

Harry turns to Niall, which is normal for Louis. It's just typical for people to be attracted to Niall's charismatic nature, and, while being friends with Niall means he's linked with many social people, he's just not very extroverted. He feels queer and out-of-place amongst them, mostly. Because they're all flashy and pretty and perfect and Louis's none of those things, especially not perfect.

"I'd like to ask your friend out."

This, however, is most certainly not normal.

Louis's head shoots up, and he stares at Harry, incredulous and stunned. 

Niall, however, looks contemplative.

"Oh, yeah?" he says, arching an eyebrow, while Louis is still struck dumb. Harry nods, agreeable and with a sweet smile on his lips. He sways a little, looking slightly bashful. "So why're you telling me?"

"I need permission," Harry shrugs, a rippling movement of his shoulders that tightens the coat cloth. Niall purses his lips, looking curious, and then he shoots a question at him.

"Say I gave you an Oreo. What would you do?"

Harry doesn't even appear phased by the question. He smiles that sweet smile again, and, although Louis is still shocked, he can't help but appreciate how pretty his smile is. "Twist, lick, and dunk," Harry replies, in an obvious tone. The yellow light makes the stray hairs on his head look like gold.

Niall's face splits into a grin. "Then I hereby grant you permission to ask my friend out."

Harry beams, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and Louis suddenly noticed his deep dimples that blossom when he smiles. Then Harry turns to him, and he blinks and focuses.

Niall wanders off in the direction of the academy, purposefully leaving the two of them alone.

"So, erm." Harry grins again, ducking his head in sheepish way, before looking back up at Louis through his dark eyelashes. " _Will_ you go out with me?" 

It's so utterly preschool, that Harry just asked him to go out with him in that sense, that Louis almost snaps. But, he doesn't.

"Why?" And he can't help the incredulosity that slips into his tone, but honestly. Harry's beautiful, in every sense of the word, with pretty eyes and honey-sweet smiles, with charming words and a friendly nature. And he's asking Louis out? Something is deliberately wrong. 

Harry blinks down at him, owlish, before he cracks a smile. "Why not?" 

"Because..." Louis shakes his head, struggling for words. The fluffy collar of the sheepskin jacket tickles the underneath of the chin, and, as if instinctively, Harry reaches forward and smoothens it out. Louis flinches accidentally, and Harry looks upset, nibbling his lip, tucking his hand back in his pocket. 

"Well, for starters, you didn't even _know_ if I liked guys," Louis says hurriedly, because shite, his chin is buzzing with the feel of Harry's warm fingers on his skin. 

Harry breaks into another smile, and Louis wonders how many smiles this boy has tucked into his back pocket, and if he could possibly deter the sunshine in his mind. "That's kind of why I asked Niall first. I don't mind taking chances." 

The way he says it, like he doesn't mind taking chances for Louis in any way whatsoever, makes Louis's gaze fall downwards. "And you don't even know me." 

"That's exactly what I want to change," Harry says softly, and Louis can't help looking up then, and Harry's smile has slipped away, replaced by an honest look, his eyes glowing with reflected streetlights. He looks like he wants to reach out and touch Louis again, although 1. Louis can't think for the life of him why, and 2. He'd probably go into cardiac arrest. It's unfair how gorgeous he is, the way he's manipulating Louis's mind into mistakenly wanting him. 

Because Louis _can't_ want him. It'll all just go wrong, like it did before, and although Harry's practically an angel in human form, there's no way he's taking his chances here. 

"I don't. I mean." Louis shakes his head again, feverishly. Harry's looking at him expectantly, green eyes wide with what could be hope. But not likely. "I don't know," he says, at last. 

"For _fuck's_ sake," Niall says, sighing. Apparently, he had not left. "Yes, he'll go out with you. What time?" 

Louis's own eyes widen and he turns to Niall, opening his mouth, but Niall intercepts, tugging him a couple of meters away, so Harry's out of earshot of his hissed reply. "No. No way're you getting out of this one, Tommo. I am literally _forcing_ you to go on this date. I can't be half-arsed about what you say, but you always deny, deny, _deny_ going out, and we're all tired of it. Live a little. Okay?" 

It could've been harsh, but Niall's eyes are blooming with concern, and he's sucking his bottom lip like he does when he's anxious. He looks so worried that Louis really can't deny him this. 

"Okay," he murmurs, and Niall smiles, pulling him into a hug, because, well, Niall's a hugger. 

"It's a yes!" Niall cheers loudly, and Louis just shakes his head, grinning. 

"It's a yes?" Harry inquires from behind them, and Louis starts, forgetting he was there. 

He turns towards Harry, scratching his head, shyly. "Er, yeah. I - yes." 

"The bakery on the coming Saturday?" asks Harry, and Louis thinks it over - he's not busy. And, though he knows he'll regret it, he nods. 

But the biggest shite-eating grin slips onto Harry's face, so _maybe_ it's worth the regret. Harry bites his bottom lip, trying to withhold his grin, but it blooms like bright primroses on his face. His dimples crater in his cheeks. "Seven-thirty," Harry tells him, and Louis nods again, still sure of his later regret but too immersed in Harry's bubbling happiness. 

"Great," Harry says, grin still in place. "See you." 

"See you," Louis says softly, and Niall's beaming from next to him. Harry nods at Niall, before turning gracefully on his heel and trudging through the snow, opposite. 

"Yeaahhhhh!" Niall whoops enthusiastically, taking Louis's arm and running towards academy. "Now hurry, you're gonna be late, and Cardle's gonna _kill_ you!" 

Louis sudden gasp of horror at the realization and Niall's evil cackle are lost in the wind, chasing after them like one last chance. The itch under Louis's skin is completely gone, which it hasn't been for almost a year.


	2. Mossy Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Triggers for self-harm.
> 
> Also - 'plasters', for all you Americans, means 'Band-Aids'.

Okay, he knows it's stupid and stereotypically feminine and that this is all a mistake, anyway, but Louis really can _not_ find anything to wear to this stupid date.

He raffles through his clothes, black and brown and maroon and white all melting together into a sugary, goopy mess which isn't so much revolting as disconcerting. Louis sighs in frustration, breathing out through his nose and causing his fringe to flutter upwards. He plucks at his own pyjama top, distressed.

"You look harried," someone comments, and Louis jumps, spinning around, off-guard. It's just Aiden Grimshaw, caramel-coloured hair swept up in a quiff and eyes crinkled in a smile. Honestly, Aiden's disturbingly nice, always trying to paper over awkward situations and stressing tension. Louis doesn't get why Aiden sticks him, but he does. The two of them may not be as close as him and Niall, but Aiden is awfully perceptive. Niall saunters into the room, and Louis guesses they came in together. He begins fiddling with the telly.

"Nialler told me that you had a _date_ tonight," Aiden says suggestively, raising his eyebrow playfully.

"Sort of," Louis mumbles.

"Liar. I know everything, it's definitely a date," declares Aiden, eyes sparkling topaz. He sprawls out on Louis's unkempt bed, eyes studying the rack of shirts and crumpled piles of pants. Louis waits.  
Aiden is one of the beautiful people he knows, and sometimes his beauty is uncanny and unnerving to Louis. But the best thing about Aiden is he really doesn't know he's beautiful, and doesn't show a flicker of vanity. He's genuine and warm and compassionate. And, in this case, a good stylist. (You can tell by the charcoal knee-length coat that he's wearing which accenuates his skin, and the red scarf lassoed lazily around his neck that brings out the mahogany tones in his hair. You'd think it wouldn't look good, but Aiden looks gorgeous, and absently so.)

Aiden saunters overs to Louis's closet, and plucks out a violet-grey sweater and dark jeans from the forgotten hinterlands of His Cupboard. Louis blinks, looking at the aforementioned items of clothing. He doesn't remember ever buying those.

"I swear, Louis, it's just like you to have a girly freakout over what to wear because half your clothes are tossed at the back of the cupboard," Aiden says, teasing, throwing the bundle of clothing into Louis's arms. He also picks out a similar charcoal-grey coat to his own from the closet and tosses it on to the bed, along with dark Old-Man Shoes.  
He then propels Louis into the en-suite bathroom. This academy is not cheap. 

"Shower, clean up, and call me when you need me," Aiden tells him, backing back out of the loo with a fond smile on his lips. Louis smiles faintly at him as he shuts the door, then he listens as he hears Niall and Aiden cackling together while setting up a game of Black Ops.

Louis decides that showering would be the best idea, and runs the warm water tap all the way. He strips quickly, while the mirror rapidly fogs up, and hops under the spray.  
It's hot and relieving, like burning away his troubles and leaving them in a swirl of water at his feet. Louis quickly soaps and shampoos, then rinses all the suds out of his hair - and then he freezes.

The itch is there.  
And so is the blade.

Well, it's not an actual blade - rather, it's a tiny pair of silver scissors. They catch the light irresistably, like shiny liquid moonlight.

Louis agonizes in a decision.

He shouldn't, that's why he tossed the razor in Niall's bin... But he always shouldn't and does it anyway... He can do it now... _Louis. You know you have to do it now. You know you do._

Louis reaches out of the shower, droplets residing on his skin like armour, and he takes the scissors.

It's pretty and alluring, untarnished and ready for use. Still, Louis swipes some soap on it beforehand.

Then he drags it across the top of his thigh.  
It burns, heavily, so different from the normal blade he's used to. He slashes again, the burn increasing, but there's no blood. Louis starts to panic. He brings it across his skin again and again and again - then he accidentally jabs himself with it. Hard.

Louis hisses, clutching his thigh at the intense burn (because he's used to sting, not burn), and then peers at the wound he's created.  
Sure enough, blood is pooling in the wound, and Louis sighs in relief. Then, conscious of the wildfire in his thighs, he washes himself again, and steps out. He slinks a towel around him, drying the water on him and dabbing at the slashes which now, astonishingly, have lines of blood appearing on them. One oozes a droplet.

Quietly, he slides a drawer open and takes out the plasters, unpeeling the paper off a couple and gingerly sticking them on. He doesn't really care about the pain - he deserves it, anyway - but they keep the blood from seeping through his jeans.  
He pulls his boxers on, reveling in the stinging pain as they brush against the plasters, and then his dark jeans. 

They make his arse look huge, he knows, as he stares at himself in the mirror miserably. He pulls on a white button-down, and the sweater on top. It's more grey than violet, but that's irrelevant.  
He feels stupid, as he walks out to find socks, but Aiden glances over and whistles softly.

"Looking fine, Tommo." His eyes have a touch of fondness in them, and Aiden doesn't lie, so Louis can't help smiling at that. He grabs his socks, sits on a sofa, and while yanking them on (he really doesn't understand why clothes have to stick to wet skin, it's epicly frustrating) a head of dark hair flings itself at him.

He splutters, grabbing it to make sure it doesn't fall, and then pushes it gently to the ground.  
It turns out to be Cher, her hair cascading in a heap of tangles across her shoulders. Her bubblegum-pink lipstick matches the smacking sounds she's making while she eats an Extra gum. 

"Lou Lou, you look _fabulous_!" she giggles, kicking her pink platform shoes off and resting her feet on his lap. He pushes them off, smiling, because Cher is just ridiculous, and he kind of loves that. Again, another person who he can't understand why she sticks him. But, again, she does.

"Now, Miss Lloyd," Niall says in a bland British accent which can only be an impersonation of their principal, the Headmaster of the school, Mr. Simon Cowell. "You know best of all our students we don't allow firecrackers in class."

Aiden explodes into laughter, stuffing his fist into his mouth. Louis just smirks, pulling his shoes on and letting the conversation flow. This what normally goes on; the three of them banter while Louis smiles and listens, because he can't fix in to their conversations - he's too much of a loser.

"And then that rocket went off in the supply closet," Cher says with relish. Aiden keeps laughing silently.

Cher was much of a dramatist - which was why she was taking Drama. Aiden took Vocals, and Niall was in Strings, along with Louis, as this academy included the piano as a strings instrument.  
Louis glances at the clock - 7:18 p.m. "I think I need to go," Louis volunteers, grabbing the charcoal coat and slipping it on. It's silky-cool on the inside, already gathering his body heat and keeping it locked in the folds. It's well insulated.

"I'll walk you," Aiden announces, getting his own coat on and looping the scarf around his neck. Before Louis can tell him it's really not necessary, he's being gently propelled out the door and pushed to the stairs of the dormitory.  
They climb downstairs, to the ground floor, where Mary The Receptionist (he has yet to learn her full name) calls out to them, "Be back by 11!"

Aiden grins at her, while Louis just nods. 

"You didn't have to come," Louis tells him lowly as they leave the building, walking into the buffeting embrace of icy winds. Aiden shrugs.

"I wanted to," Aiden says, and they leave the campus grounds, which are no longer blanketed with snow; only dewdrops and frost

They walk in silence down to the small shopping center, Louis's shoes making click-clack noises against the concrete. Their breaths come out in puffs of fog, and Louis briefly imagines a land where they're all dragons and they can breathe fire, and they save the pretty princess in the castle from the ghastly knight, and Louis can burn away his troubles just like paper...

"Lou!" Aiden throws an arm out, pushing Louis back onto the pavement, while a car speeds past. Louis grabs Aiden's arm, horrified, trembling with his breaths. He's dazed off again.

Aiden studies him. " _Don't_ slip off into a daydream. Okay?"

"Okay," Louis replies shakily, leaning closer to him.

He knows what Aiden wants to ask - _Is everything okay? Are things at home all right? We're worried about you, you're acting off, is something wrong?_ But the answer is always the same from Louis; _Yeah, yes, nothing's wrong, everything's okay._ Because he lies. He lies because he's a horrible human being and he deserves to go to hell. He's disgusting and dirty and not perfect and not beautiful and not even pretty, or hot, or cute, or remotely good-looking.

They turn the corner and it's there, The Grimshaw Bakery. Except the neon sign isn't lit and it looks closed, the place shrouded in dark. 

Aiden cocks an eyebrow. "Is he late?"

But Louis shakes his head, peeling a sticky note off the glass door. _Come on in._ Harry's got nice handwriting.

"He's inside," Aiden says, peeking over Louis's shoulder at the note.

Louis nods, internally panicking. A _date?_ A _date?_ The last date he was on had to be about a year ago. What would he do, what would he say?

Aiden catches hold of him, taking his shoulders and leaning in close, almost touching foreheads. Louis has to look up, and Aiden has to look down, what with Louis's lack in height and Aiden's abundance of.

"It's gonna be okay," he whispers. "If he's anything but the perfect gentleman, I'll kick his arse. 'Kay?"

"'Kay," Louis mutters. Aiden smiles at him, then begins heading back. Aiden's the mothering and fathering figure of his in the academy... Niall's more like the older brother (even though Louis's older than him), and Cher the mischevious little sister, always up for gags.

Louis turns to the door, drowning in his fears and self-hatred, and opens the door.

Only a shaft of light from outside illuminates the room, and quite barely so. It's gloomy and creepy and very unlike how it was last time. Spidery shadows flicker on the walls. Louis shivers, too disturbed to speak.

"Hello." The voice is dark and gravelly and terrifyingly familiar, and Louis can't help the scream that he utters, backing up and falling over.

"Sorry! Sorry, sorry!" a differently familiar voice says, sounding alarmed, and two big warm hands find Louis's and pull him upright. "Shite, I'm so sorry, Louis."

"It's okay," Louis manages, as a flame flickers on a candle and sends a warm glow throughout the room. It's Harry, eyes worried and hair adorably mussed. It's just... the voice that Harry had put on... It was so similar to _his_...

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm _really_ sorry," Harry says frantically. He looks upset, and unfortunately for Louis, Harry pulls off the unhappy look awfully well.

"Harry, it's okay, really," Louis tells him, fidgeting with Harry's hands encompassing his. Harry doesn't seem to notice it, but lets go, looking unhappy. "I'm just not a big fan of the dark, and you startled me." Which is true, although not the reason why Louis screamed.

"I'm still awfully sorry," Harry apologizes, distressed, and Louis can't help laughing at how sweet he is. 

"It's really okay," Louis reassures him, and Harry looks consoled. "So, erm. What now?"

For a moment, Harry looks dazed, his eyes boring into Louis's like green flames, then he blinks and smiles. "How about dinner?"

********************

Dinner is, admittedly, really really nice; they picnic on the floor with a thick blanket, surrounded by tables like a cave. Harry's brought a basket of food, including barbecue and fresh bread and chocolate-covered strawberries, though God knows that's so cliche. Louis really enjoys it, because Harry's sweet and makes excellent small talk and he laughs beautifully, with his head thrown back in a cackle. But mostly, Louis likes the smile that bursts out of him accidentally, his dimples deep in his cheeks and his teeth exposed, because he looks so warm and gorgeously normal. (Louis wonders why the bakery isn't open - he strongly suspects Harry had it closed for this... But Louis's not really worthy of that, so he also severely doubts that.)

"Okay, what do you think of Taylor Swift?" Harry asks, sitting cross-legged. He takes a strawberry and bites into it, still looking at Louis.

Okay, that is _not fair_ of Harry to do that. "I'm not a very big fan. But she's pretty," Louis says uneasily. That's not the exact truth.

Harry doesn't seem to notice. "I think if I actually had the chance, I wouldn't date her, because she'd write a song about me."

"Isn't that what songwriters do? Write their experiences?" Louis asks.

Harry locks gazes with him, a queer smile on his lips. "Probably."

Louis has to look away.

"But I'm a record holding champion in records," Harry says triumphantly. Louis tilts his head in question. "I have 35 James Taylor records."

Louis cracks a small smile at that. "I don't think that's a record."

"Why not?"

"Well. I've got 37."

Harry blinks at him, eyes wide and astonished. He uncrosses his legs and leans closer. "No."

"Yeah, my mum used to have a whole stack and she gave them to me a year ago. I didn't really listen to him, or much old music, I - er, I'm more of a Top 40s person - " _Lies_. " - But she insisted I would like them, so I listen to them sometimes, it reminds me of happiness." Louis cuts off his own ramble, shrugging shyly. Suddenly feeling warm, he unbuttons his coat and puts it to the side.

Harry still looks incredulous and wondering, but he leans back, smiling. "Goddamn, aren't you something."

Louis flushes, warm under his collar and Harry absently reaches forward and fiddles with his hair. Louis catches his breath, almost frozen because it's burning, not like the scissors but warm and alive and electric. Harry looks dazed all over again, eyes slightly glassy and lips prominently pink, hair matted and unkempt.

Suddenly, Harry closes his eyes for a moment, and draws back, upset. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"It's not, really. But, it's just." Harry gazes up at him through his eyelashes, looking stunned. "Do you have _any idea_ how beautiful you are?"

Louis really does freeze then. That is _absolutely_ not fair, for Harry to say something as atrocious as that. "Harry."

Harry shakes his head. "Don't answer that. I've got a game to play, now, if that's okay with you."

Louis manages to nod, pushing those lies to the back of his head. He should be furious at him - for telling untruths and putting Louis through pretences. But Harry's much too iresistable, and he's much too sweet, and he leaves it be. Harry produces a large box of chocolates from behind him. Louis internally swallows, thinking a little about the extra calories.

"Pick a chocolate. Any one."

Louis blinks. He glances around for some sort of flavour-labeller, but to no avail. "Er... What about - "

"Just pick one," Harry cuts him off, smiling encouragingly, hair a misty halo of darkness against his moonlight skin. Louis hesitates, but chooses the most innocent looking chocolate. Harry nods for him to eat it. Stealing another glance at Harry, he inhales, and puts it in his mouth.

Harry looks at him, expectant.

In under ten seconds, Louis grabs a tissue and coughs it out. "I'm sorry, but - "

Harry waves him off, giggling in a way that should in no circumstances be considered as proper etiquette for males, but it's definitely cute. "What did it taste like?"

Louis wrinkles his nose. "Peanuts. And dark chocolate. I'm not very big on nuts - well, actually, I _loathe_ nuts."

Harry's still giggling. "Sorry, but that's the game. We have to try random chocolates."

"Oh, joyous me," Louis quips, not even meaning to, but Harry laughs delightedly. That's surprising. _He_ always became cross at Louis's sarcastic comments.

Harry plucks a triangular chocolate from the box, and pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. His expression is almost comical. "Nougat and almonds. Not bad." 

Louis's nose crinkles again. "Sounds awful."

Harry just laughs, and pushes the box towards Louis.  
They slide the box back and forth, snacking on the candy like no tommorow, with Harry pulling the most comically horrible faces at some chocolates, and others lighting up his entire face. Louis dislikes some of them (all the ones with any sort of nuts), likes a lot of them, but only a choicy few are his select favourites.

It's fun, Louis doesn't bother denying it. When all the chocolates are finished (which takes a good half-hour due to it being so large), Harry sweeps the mainly-empty picnic basket off the blanket, leaving it clean, and lies down on it, gesturing for Louis to lie down with him. This sends Louis into a full-blown panic. Lie _down?_ With a _boy?_ His body shrieks in memorial pain at the implications, and a dizzying wave of nausea rises in his throat.

" _Hey,_ " Harry says softly, and Louis looks his way, trying to hide his panic.  
He's illuminated by soft candlelight, making his skin glow. His eyes are green-golden-grey-green-blue-brown-green and dizzyingly sad, but sad in sympathy, rather than self-pity. 

"I promise."

His words speak unspoken phrases, which swarm through Louis like thunder. He shouldn't trust Harry, he can _not_ trust Harry, but there's a pleading look in his eyes which is so warm. Internally screaming, he takes Harry's hand and they lie down. Louis wonders if Harry can feel his thrumming heartbeat through their still-linked hands.

"Tell me about yourself," Harry says.

And Louis does, a bit. He tells Harry his full name, his age, his birthday, the amount of siblings he has, where he lived, about his parents' divorce, about his old friends, about how he moved here to London last year, about Niall and Cher and Aiden and about their adventures. He tells him a lot - but only enough to fill the bottom of the void. There's so much teeming at his lips, how much he wants to spill about him.

But he can't.

And Harry tacks right after Louis stops talking. Louis finds out he's actually 19. He was born in Holmes Chapel, Cheshire, and he has an older sister named Gemma. He reads cheesy romance novels and he likes the smell of chlorine. His parents are divorced, as well, but his mum's gotten married to a new bloke who's great, so he's okay. He's got one special friend Zayn (Louis finds this a queer name, but doesn't says so in fear of sounding rude), but he has many acquaintances. He's taking Law and Business in college, because he wants to become a lawyer. He's pretty nerdy. He can make flower crowns, and jolly well too. He's extraordinarily clumsy, however graceful he may seem.

It goes on and on and Louis listens, because Harry's shy and vulnerable when he's talking about himself and it's nice. There are plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling which are only visible when they blow the candle out, so Harry does (after taking permission from Louis, because he's anxious not to upset him), and they stare up at the faint planets.

"Mars is my favourite," Louis says quietly, their hands no longer entwined. 

"Pluto is mine," Harry says after a moment's thought.

"That's not a planet anymore, is it?"

"No," Harry agrees, "But I don't listen to that. People can't change what it is just because they deem it too small. It's a planet, and for me, it always will be. But why do you like Venus?"

"Because it's out of place. It's almost livable, except it's not. It's red and - and passionate. It's not gas, like Saturn and Jupiter. But it's not cold like Neptune and Uranus and Pluto. And it's not hot like Mercury and Venus. And it's not Earth. It's alone."

"So is Earth, by your opinions," Harry points out.

"But Earth is alive, isn't it? Mars.... isn't." Louis shrugs.

Harry's silent for only a moment. Then, "It doesn't matter if Mars is different, I think. It's my new favourite, now, actually."

Louis laughs, bubbling out of him mistakenly. "I don't think you can do that."

"I don't know. The way other people talk about Mars isn't anything like you do."

It takes a while for Louis to realize that maybe they aren't talking about planets at all.

********************

It's almost eleven, and Harry takes one look into the inky darkness and says, "I'll walk you back."

"No," Louis refuses. "No, it's really okay."

"It's dark, it's cold and I want to. I was the one who asked you out."

"I want you to get home safe," Louis says instantly. Then he flushes.

Harry smiles warmly at him. (God, this boy has an abundance of smiles, doesn't he.) "I will. I know my way around and, besides, I can call someone if need be. Zayn would do it in a heartbeat. And it's easier for me to walk you, because the academy is closer." And, when Louis starts to protest again, "Please don't say no."

And, well. Louis really can't, now.

They walk quietly, Louis's hands folded across his chest and Harry's stuffed into his jeans' pockets. He's wearing a dark sheepskin jacket much like Louis was wearing the other day, and Louis wonders if he did this purposely.  
The streetlights glow like they did before, reflecting off the wet cement and cobbles like painted glass. 

They walk and walk and Louis's hands have fallen to his sides, and suddenly Harry's fingertips touch his; just brushing. Louis glances down - Harry's wearing fingerless gloves - and then up, Harry smiling bashfully at him, almost like a thank-you. Louis almost smiles back. Almost.

The stars are blinking at them curiously, whispering. _Who's that boy? He's very beautiful, his eyes are so green. Oh, there's someone next to him; that's odd, he's very different. Ah, I can see the scars on his legs... Wallowing in self-pity, that one, as well as being useless, he'll never get anywhere. When the green-eyed one finds out, he'll fall away..._

Louis sighs internally at how true that is. His hands absently scratch on the legs of his jeans, scraping against the wounds and stinging. Louis winces in relief. Harry doesn't notice.

At long last, they reach the academy, the whole school closing down and lights flickering off, shrouding most of the building in darkness.

Louis turns around, facing Harry. "Thanks for coming," Harry says gently. 

"It was really, really nice," Louis almost whispers, because Harry's such an angel in the darkness, standing out like a lighthouse amongst the dark, thrashing waves. 

He doesn't quite understand how it happens, but suddenly he's closer to Harry, and Harry's hands are drifting towards his face and for some stupid reason, he likes the fact that Harry's wearing fingerless gloves because his fingers on Louis's unworthy skin are like firecrackers. 

"Can I kiss you?" Harry asks in a hoarse whisper, fingers trembling for some reason. Louis closes his eyes, screaming inside, but he nods once, unconsciously leaning inwards and they're pressed together, warm and safe and homey.  
Louis can feel Harry's trembling breath on his cheek, and he realizes faintly that he's shivering a little as well, like electric currents are transferring between the two of them and it's dizzying.

And Harry's lips find Louis's.

One of his hands touch Louis's waist and the other holds his chin, and his lips are slightly chapped but warm and plump. He kisses soft and sweet and lingering, still trembling, like he's afraid Louis might break, but that's pretty stupid of Louis to think.  
Thing is, Louis isn't thinking. He's living in the kiss, raised slightly on his tiptoes and Harry's arm pulling him up to height, and Louis doesn't have many memories that he can call Happy, but he would take this one and bottle it up in a promise if he could.

Finally, Louis breaks off, lips still millimeters from Harry's. Harry's staring down at Louis with beautiful green eyes, framed by grey smoke and blue flecks, breathing slightly unsteadily. 

" _Thanks,_ " Louis whispers quietly, looking up at him, feeling like stars were glowing in his lips.

" _Thanks,_ " Harry says as well, eyes searching Louis's curiously, and he glances down to Louis's lips, then looks back up.

Louis drifts back onto his feet, soles and balls of his feet touching the floor, and Harry gently detaches himself from Louis. He lets his fingers linger, but drops them soon.

"Can I see you again?" Harry asks.

It's then that Louis realizes that he has a choice.  
 _He can go out with Harry again._

Niall only wanted him to go out on a date, not several; he never implied that Louis had to go out with him again. But... 

"Yeah," Louis agrees, suddenly. "Yes." 

Harry looks... relieved? "Okay, wait..." He digs a marker out of his pocket, which Louis silently finds very amusing - _what, is he waiting to sign autographs or something?_ \- , and prints a number onto Louis's palm. The ink is cool, and Harry blows on it softly to stop it from bleeding. 

"You can text me," Harry offers, gazing down at Louis solemnly. "If you want." 

"Okay." 

Harry teeters on the balls of his feet, looking anxious. Louis looks down. 

"Goodnight," Harry finally murmurs. 

" 'Night," Louis says softly, and Harry brushes the faintest of kisses against his hair. Then he smiles, sweetly, and walks off. Louis doesn't stay to watch. 

He goes inside the campus, checking in with Mary The Receptionist, and trudges up to his dorm. He unlocks the door, goes inside, then locks the door behind him, drifting to his bed. 

This is one of those night's that Niall has pushed their beds together; he's lying horizontally on the two beds, curled up in his blanket and looking like a china doll in the moonlight. Louis changes into his pyjamas, and, kicking the remains of his clothes off the bed, slides down next to him. 

Niall awakens, slightly. "Hey, Lou," he murmurs. 

"Go back to sleep, Niall," Louis whispers, pulling the blanket on top of himself, snuggling down. 

Niall blinks sleepily. "How was the date?" he persists. 

Louis can feel the numbers etched in his palm. "Really, really nice." 

"Are y'gonna see him again?" 

Louis hesitates. He still has a choice. "Yes." 

"Okay," Niall says, and he snuggles up to Louis's shoulder, because he's a cuddler when he's sleepy. Louis leaves him room to huddle, scratching absently at his wounded thighs, and lets his eyes flutter shut, mistakenly thinking of porcelain cheekbones and green, mossy eyes and softly chapped lips which never let go.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't call.

The marker fades after two more showers, painted red with blood, and Aiden finally stops asking about Harry when Louis agitatedly managed to snap his pencil without knowing when the tall individual pursued on the subject. Cher just pops a bubble in his ear when he shrugs her question off. Niall is the same, still lively and charming and he's still pushing their beds together so they can be closer. 

Sometimes, Louis thinks Niall is the only one who understands, when he wakes up to find the blond boy's arms wrapped around his torso and legs muddled with his own and head on Louis's chest. He notices the slight extra affection, and both loves it and despises it, but otherwise, all is the same.

Niall, Cher, two other girls who's names he's forgotten ( _one is Perry,_ he remembers suddenly, _or something_ ) are lounging under the rare bit of sunlight they have when Louis plonks himself down next to them, more awkward then bored.

"I wanna go get drunk," Cher hums, Ray-Bans hiding her cocoa-eyes and hairstyle still intact, despite the grass mussing everyone else's up. Cher may not be Louis's definition of beautiful, but she's more than enough. 

Niall pulls Louis down to lie down with him, hooking his ankles around like vines. Nobody comments. "Sounds wicked. 'S been more than a week since we got plastered, innit, Lou?" 

Funny, Louis just realizes that Niall hardly ever calls him Louis.

"Louuuuuu."

One of the foreign girls is looking at him with dark tresses spilling across her shoulders. _Emily,_ Louis thinks, _or Eleanor or Elena. Something of the sort._

"Lou?"

 _Eleanor,_ he thinks decisively, making up his mind about it. She's pretty, if not slightly too innocent.

"LOUIS TOMLINSON."

He snaps into reality, flinching. Everyone's gazes are trained on him, and he feels himself go hot. It's so typical of him to space out.

"Oh," the word escapes his lips. "Oh. Sorry, what?"

Niall nudges his ankle with a Suprah. "Been a while since we went into town for a pint, hmm? Wanna come?"

And Louis is awfully two-minded about that, because 1A. He doesn't need a hangover to bow-tie the gift wrap of tommorow's classes, but 1B. He is in desperate need of detachment. And 2A. It has been a while. But, as 2B. would say, waiting does not good things make. Still, 3A. he's stressing out for no reason, and it would help. (3B. What might actually help is if he actually calls the number which is scrawled in marker into his brain instead of trying to rub it away.)

He's still trying to chose whether to circle the As or the Bs when Niall decides for him. "Yep. You're comin' with me, mate."

Cher claps her hands delightedly, the loud snap of a sound putting Louis's indignant scoff of a protest to shame. "Ace. Meet you outside at 'round 8?"

"Definitely," Niall confirms. Perry - _oh, it's spelled with an I and E_ \- Perrie smiles. "I need to crack into my trombone practice. Rain check?"

"Sure," Niall says cheerily, and Eleanor blinks deep brown eyes at him.

"Can I come?" she asks, her eyes sliding sideways somewhere near Louis's face. He strongly suspects that Mr. Murs is somewhere distantly behind him - he knew all the girls fancied him. Everyone did.

"Obviously." Cher rolls her eyes. She steals a glance at Louis, winking at him suspiciously. Eleanor goes pink. Louis barely notices.

"Alright. Bye, then," Eleanor says, smiling at all three of them before waving and trotting off to her dormy.  
A split second after Eleanor is out of earshot, Niall spills. 

"Did you say the way she looked at him holy fuck it was so cute and all the shite they're going to be adorable and have a cute kid named Jane or something - "

Cher was in a similar state. "I know right it was so adorable I could've exploded I mean they have so much sexual tension I can just feel it - "

"Wait, what?" Louis breaks in. He doesn't even realize how tense he's become until Niall suddenly appears surprised, squeezing his feet around Louis's ankles so that he relaxes his leg muscles. Niall feels like a strong spindle of a glass stem between his legs, and Louis feels ridiculously big. 

"Nothing," Niall says, "It's just that you clearly didn't notice how El was giving you heart eyes." 

Louis blinks. "She was not." 

****************** 

The dance floor is bright and murky, like marble paint strewn across a canvas, muddy brown wrapped in neon green, muted navy with strands of fiery red, flashing past his eyes dazedly. It's loud and boisterous, rauccous laughter the soundtrack of the feeling. Louis knocks down a cherry-red cocktail, scooping the sliced pineapple up from the bottom of the glass and eating it right up.

He's pleasantly buzzed, gone enough to forget but here enough to _spark._ He twirls the stem of the glass across the table, letting it roll as it hums against the cool glass counter. Niall spins past him like a tornado, hands linked with someone's as they spin dramatically to the center of the dancefloor, straight into the thick crowd.

Eleanor is around here somewhere, claiming to get more drinks for the two of them. She's kind and funny and sweet, but he likes her more as a friend, despite the kissy faces Cher was making at them.

Someone collapses onto a stool halfway around the counter from him, giggling hysterically while a girl clambers onto his lap, chuckling darkly into his neck. Her hands roam his chest, teeth gnawing at the feathery tattooed tails licking at his collar bones. 

He suddenly takes her waist and sets her to the floor. She groans out something in protest, trying to press herself back into his arms.

_(Louis doesn't even know why he's watching this, but he's an observer, see, and he watches. Like Death.)_

He mumbles something in her ear, possibly so she can comprehend what he's saying. She snorts, tosses her hair, and stalks off. The boy calls something at her, but somehow, Louis can hear him smiling. Hear him. It's odd, almost familiar.

The boy spins in his stool, facing the counter with rauccous dimples embedded in his cheeks and eyes glittery gem-green under the highlights. His elbows are long and lean, hair a bird's nest of irresistible.  
Who else, but Harry.

Louis freezes, the warm buzz suddenly nauseating. The glass is suddenly halted in his hand.

To his utter dismay, Harry seems to notice the lack of movement and looks over at him. His expression changes kaleidoscopically; curious to recognition to surprise to something edging around upset to cheerfulness.

"Louis?" he calls, the music so loud his voice is almost undistinguishable. Almost. Louis would always recognize his voice.

_(The only boy who made him feel relatively okay.)_

He wrestles with words. "Harry?" he asks foolishly, blinking.

In a matter of moments, Harry is sliding into the stool on Louis's right. He looks positively delighted, which partially pleases Louis and partially terrifies him. "I didn't know you came around here!" Harry cheers.

Louis blinks, again, down at his lonely glass. "I don't, much," he mutters, but the words stick in his throat. It hurts that even when Harry's shirt is askew and his skin is coated in a faint sheen of sweat and his eyes are glassy, he's still one of the most beautiful people Louis's ever seen.  
Harry tilts his head (adorably), eyes conveying his confusion.

"I don't, much," Louis tries, louder, and Harry beams. His legs seem to have forgotten their purpose, sprawled across the side of his seat as he faces Louis. His knees knock against the other bar stool.

"That's too bad," Harry says, shrugging. "This a special occasion?"

Louis shakes his head no. Harry gives him a questioning look.

"Just wanted to forget a little," he spills quietly, hoping maybe Harry didn't hear him, but Harry nibbles his bottom lip, nodding like he understands (or maybe just to indicate he heard). And, casually like he's forgotten (more likely that it's a habit of his - Harry seems to be an extremely touchy-feely person), he smooths a sweaty lock of hair off of Louis's forehead. Louis doesn't flinch, can't do anything but feel the words pour out of his mouth.

"You didn't call."

That's all Louis says, all, as he stares almost desperately into Harry's slippery gem eyes, sliding through them like mirrors. He suddenly feels more than buzzed - he feels sick.

Harry furrows his brow, confused. He picks at something in Louis's hair, mouth twisted into a frown. "That's because _I_ gave _you_ my number, not the other way round." Now he looks unhappy again, and Louis flushes dark red. 

"Rig - Right. Right. Sorry, I - I'll stop bothering you," Louis says, standing abruptedly and spilling into the mass of flesh and lust on the dancefloor, as the world is tinged in royal purple, highlighter orange, bright green, painting the people different colours.

He touches his way through, and everyone complies, spinning around to look at him as he pushes past them. He can hear Harry behind him (for some Goddamn reason), but he's stuck in Chinese handcuffs - being rough when all you have to do is be smart and soft.

He finds a bathroom, a shitty one at that but a bathroom all the same. He wrenches the door open, rust crumbling onto his fingertips as he slams it shut, sliding the creaky bolt into place. Then he kneels over, trying to calm his breathing.

 _Everything_ about Harry entices him, makes him wonder, makes him feel warm and curious and like an average boy with a crush, but - it's not working. The stars tried to align for him once, and all he got was spaghettification in a black hole. It hurt, physically and emotionally, and he's learned that relationships are meant to decieve. He can't like Harry, can't go out with him. He can't. His stars aren't meant to.

(He's also realized that he is far beyond 'buzzed' than he previously thought.)

Someone knocks on the bathroom door hollowly, and Louis splashes water from the moldy sink tap onto his face, shivering at the contact, before yanking the bolt out of place. He's almost wacked in the face by a hand, poised to knock.

"Lou?" Harry asks, brow still furrowed and mouth still twisted and still so beautiful. Louis can't help being drawn to him.

"Sorry," he mutters before shoving past, making Harry stumble slightly.

He's forgotten his own technique of getting through the crowd; Harry, on the other hand, has learned, and he locks his fingers around Louis's wrist. Louis wrestles them away, bewildered, frightened. The floor is a blurring pallet of neon lights, and Harry's face is reflecting like a bloody sunset. He looks more sober than before.

"Here," Harry murmurs, pulling Louis up close despite Louis's struggles against him, picking his way through the crowd like a field of wheat. 

"Fuck, Harry, _let me go,_ " Louis hisses, panicked, because he's terrified of the slim fingers wrapped around his wrist and what they're doing to him, how he's buzzing alive with the warm contact on his skin and how he's fighting away from it.

"Sorry, sorry," Harry apologizes to him, looking guilty but determined, as they slide past a couple grinding furiously in front of them. His breath is warm and sour with alcohol, but Louis can just catch a cidary smell amongst the stench.

"Get off, get off, get the _fuck_ off," Louis chants blindly, finally tearing his wrist from Harry's grasp and slipping away like smoke. He instantly misses the comfort of Harry's body pressed against his, even though half of him is relishing the loss.  
He hears Harry calling his name again, sounding frustrated and confused, and his shoes are glowing against the lights and his head is spinning and somebody is pulling him towards a room with a grin on his face and he's lost and someone else is saying something and Louis. Can't. Breathe.

He begins sobbing in confusion, his thoughts so jumbled that nothing makes sense. "Let me go, shit, let me go!" he cries out, and the second someone is saying, "I'm sorry, I've got him, he doesn't want to go with you" and now Louis is spinning.

Suddenly, cidary breath is whispering in his ear, "Louis, you have to trust me, okay?" and Louis chokes out, "I do," and he's being whisked off.

************************ 

He's in the back seat of a taxi, and he's finally stopped crying. He has no idea what happened in the club, or where his thoughts were, but he remembers a sunset face and a leering voice bringing him to a room and then a comforting embrace bringing him outside to the stars. His breath is still shallow.

"Almost there," Harry says against his hair, arms wrapped around Louis's middle like a seatbelt. 

Louis just blinks and looks out the window, still drunk but the effect wearing off. 

The taxi stops right by the steps of the building, and he watches dumbly as Harry thanks the driver and hands him some money. He's herded out the taxi with encouraging words and a helping hand, and even though Harry was probably as drunk as him, he helped Louis up, up the stairs to Mary The Receptionist, then past Mary to the staircase leading to the dorms, then past the stairscase to his room.

(This is why Louis doesn't go drinking, he remembers.)

"Got the key on you?" Harry asks, and Louis nod his head mutely, fumbling with his hands before fitting the key in place and letting the door swing open. 

Harry nudges him inside. "You can manage changing on your own?" he asks, feigning nonchalance, and Louis shrugs, mouth tasting sour. Harry promptly drifts towards the other side of the room, fingers skimming the bookshelf on the wall.  
Louis's greatful he's averted his gaze, and he shimmies out of his clothes before pulling on sweats and an old t-shirt with a random insignia on it. He coughs timidly to alert Harry's attention, and Harry turns, scanning Louis's expression.

"Are you gonna be okay?" he asks.

"Why are you helping me?" Louis questions, feeling his eyelids flicker as he restrains sleep. His mind is still woozy with the effects of the alcohol.

Harry shrugs this time, lingering. "I - I saw," he says hesitantly, "Your expression. When you went to the bathroom." His sentences are choppy. "You didn't look. You didn't look okay. You looked really confused and weird and drunk, and I couldn't leave you there."

"Niall was there," Louis says, voice sharper than necessary. He winces at the sound. 

"I just knew you weren't okay, and I thought I should take you home. It's - you were lost. And scared. And you needed to get out of there. So I had to help you," Harry says simply, his own eyes slightly glazed over. "And. I may want to go on another date - with you, I mean.

Louis just blinks at him, lashes falling on his cheeks like heavy weights. He fights to keep them open.

"Just - think about it?" Harry looks hopeful. "I can give you my number again, if it washed off..."

"I remember it," Louis slips. 

A crooked little smile sets itself on Harry's face. He looks happy. "Okay."

"Okay," Louis mumbles as he yawns. He absently slips down under the fuzzy covers, eyelids slipping shut.

(He may or may not remember Harry coming up to him and kissing his hair, whispering "'Night, Lou", but he probably won't admit it.)


End file.
